0730 hours, M for mature language.


He woke up in the way most people fall asleep, gradually and with a faint awareness of their surroundings. Warmth. The musky scent of bedsheets, slightly perfumed by cologne and aftershave. A soft blanket pulled up to his shoulders. Silence, save for the delicate humming of dreaming minds around him. Virgil opened his eyes. There was a blunt pain behind them.

The result, he surmised, of too much liquor and even more gillyweed. This was the thought that brought last night's events[1] back to the forefront of his thoughts.

Virgil sat up abruptly and threw the blanket off. It hadn't been a dream. He had actually told Cepheus Gamps those things. Not to mention he'd given the fucking game away with his Legilimency! Shit shit shit. The young wizard rubbed his eyes aggressively, scrubbing away evidence of the sandman. He squinted at the room around him - a beautifully framed map on the wall, wardrobe doors still swung open, his sweater and vest laying about.

Remnants of all the awful, embarrassing things he'd said last night. The idea of facing Cepheus this morning was.... impossible.

You’re worth a clear head. That was what the older man had said. Perhaps he was right but the only thing Virgil could feel right now, drawing tightly over his chest, was the sting of rejection. He reached for the water next to the table, draining it in three gulps flat.

And then he was off the bed, tousling his golden hair out of its bedhead mess. Had to get out, had to get out, had to get out before anyone woke up. His mind reached out to the other ones in the flat - reassured that they were all still asleep, Virgil grabbed his jacket and camera before slipping out of the bedroom.

            "Mreow?"

Claude! The black and white cat was treading down the passageway. He'd nearly given him a heart attack! Virgil stooped to pet the lovely creature, murmuring an apologetic, "I'm sorry I thought you were a Frenchman." Which he was, though not nearly as sorry as he felt about having made a fool of himself last night.

Virgil tried not to think about it. He needed to clear his head. Stardust, he'd go to Stardust and shower and join in on the morning rehearsal and just try not to cry until he got into a stall by himself.

"Goodbye," he told the cat and then finally turned around to leave the flat - to leave its welcoming atmosphere, nestled above the fragrant flower shop in the crisp dawn of autumn.

But of course he'd forgotten to change out of that bloody lace shirt.

1.	Vulnerable Nighttime Conversation - 1st Oct

     “Ready? Virgil’s joining us for warm-ups and rehearsal, by the way.”

Edgar looked up from his desk, surprised. Alice, one of the actors, was standing in his office doorway. It was a Saturday morning and the troupe was getting ready to begin practicing for a play that would debut on Halloween - a dancing murder mystery of sorts. His son had retired from the stage after Shakespeare in the Park, to focus on level nine. Virgil was always welcome here to help or join them but it was contrary behaviour to their previous conversations.

The wizard rose, following Alice through a series of back passages towards the main stage. They emerged from behind the waterfall curtains of velvet red: before them, the cast were in the middle of stretching.

Everyone was scattered across the amphitheatre’s floorboards, wearing comfortable clothes and dancing shoes. They helped one another reach for their toes or drop into forward lunges. Virgil, sat on the floor in his spare set of dance wear, was allowing one of the other boys to push him from behind so that he could touch past the tip of a gracefully outstretched leg.

“Are we good to begin?” Edgar called out, a tone of uncertainty as he gestured at his troupe. “I want to get through the opening dance number before lunchtime, you lot.”

Virgil lifted his head, relaxing out of his stretch, and Edgar saw the look on his son’s face. Surely everyone else in the cast had seen it as well. He looked like he’d been crying all morning. Now, with shadows under his eyes and golden locks secured in tiny little ponytails away from his face, there was something austere about it.

It was beautiful but it forbade questioning. So nobody questioned.

Someone helped him off the floor and everyone assumed positions in front of the head choreographer, a short squib with bright blue curls and a forceful attitude. Edgar watched his son a moment longer before he descended the stage to join the crew members who were lounging in the audience area, eyes trained to the actors.

“Let’s do this!” he called out, taking his seat. Virgil continued to look straight ahead.

Not a single smart quip.